Now, about Jefferson Cup Road Race, 1/2/2.5/3 race...
I, along with every other person in the world, woke up in the morning with one resolution: mark Joe Dombrowski. No matter if the entire rest of the world wins ahead of us. As long as I am exactly one wheel behind Joe Dombrowski, I can die a happy man.
The race began with a series of attacks by Joe, followed by the entire population of the Earth attempting to grab his wheel.
First, Joe attacked up the climb. All 1.6 billion folks from China attempted to grab his wheel, with the Szichwan province getting dropped, but Hong Kong folks managing to hang on just long enough for the entire South American continent to just manage to stay in contact. Unfortunately, Australia was dropped when Joe countered his own attack, and put the Earth's population (excluding himself) in difficulty once again.
Whereupon the entire population of Harley counter-attacked.
I didn't see what happened up in the break, where apparently Harley riders, bored with their break, attacked each other out of sheer boredom and spite.
My teammate Andrew Troy bridged up to the break and grabbed tenth. That's the best we could do. I'm blaming our shoddy performance, as a team, on our lack of kits. It's the only legitimate reason why we did not perform more awesomely. I've gone through everything:
Bad-ass attitude? Check.
Armadillos in trousers? Check.
Mouth breathing vacant stares of doom? Check.
Pre-race warmup routine involving extended Trikke "seshes." Check
The wearing of skinny jeans that might well mimic the constrictive effects of compression socks? Check
Pre-race rocking out to the Gap Band? Check
We just don't look sexy enough to win, I'm convinced. Then again, I'm no expert on sexy; that's the purview of Sexy Tony, who managed to win a race this weekend after 42 consecutive 2nd places in races. How he manages on the catwalk is another story.
Then again, I may not be a reliable reporter of events, partly because I saw/hallucinated(?) this guy on the side of the road cheering for us:
What the hell? The US Champ shows up to cheer on some shmucky weekend warriors mixing it up in the hills of VA? No way. Must've been an imposter or a spirit vision caused by listening to too much Gap Band.
Then there were two shirtless dudes screaming like it was le Tour. Throw in a bear, a Rugg, a Rugg wrestling a bear, an Evan Fader attempting to throw me to the ground and tell me all about how great giving in to hate and joining the dark side and serving the Emporer is, yackety shmackety, a Jorge Marcanerro trying for the 100th time to bridge to the break, and a neutralized 3/4 race a blur out of the corner of my eye as I latched onto the remnants of the Chilean nation on Joe's wheel. And you've got yourself a May Jeff Cup.
I drove down to Jeff Cup with the Dutchman, who had the pleasure of grabbing 2nd at Turkey Hill, and then repeating at Jeff Cup. We went to Charlottesville's Market Street afterwards for a beer, a burger, and some gelato. Now, compare my sorry self with the triumphant Dutchman, receiving congratulations for the Burghehouse or whatever body of elected officials governs the Dutch, raising his stein of hearty beer, a confidence borne of living below sea level and wearing lots of orange.
"Could you run to the car and fetch my long-sleeved jersey?" He asked me before the podium presentation.
Ja, of course. That's my role these days. Fetcher of podium attire. Toaster of Dutch fortune and fortitude. Shill for Dutchmen and Sexy Tonys.
Enjoy your time the sun, my friends. Soon, you'll be trying to hold Dombrowski's wheel, going up against what Rugg calls "Team Hugs and Kisses," what Walter called the men in black pajamas, and seeing hallucinations of Ben King cheering you on.